Haven't Had Enough
by devirnis
Summary: "It was a stupid, hackneyed thing to say; something you said when you were pretty frigging sure you were going to die and didn't want to go with any regrets. Only there was one problem: they'd saved the world. And now he had to deal with it." Sam/Baird, post-Gears 3.


**A/N:** What up? This is my first little excursion into the Gears fandom, though I've been stalking it since about the second game came out. I don't know why I feel the need to tell you this. Anyways. Hope you enjoy!

Also, spoilers for Gears 3. Even though it's been 2 months. But still. YOU ARE WARNED.

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><p><strong>Haven't Had Enough<strong>

It was hard to believe that it was actually over. Sixteen years of complete and utter fuckery, and now it was done, just like that. Baird sat on one of the expensive-looking leather chairs in the lobby of the Azura hotel, watching the people move about around him. No one really had any idea what to do next. They'd managed to get radio contact with Anvil Gate up and running, and Hoffman's unofficial orders were "to take a breather".

Yeah, easier said than done.

It hadn't even been a full twenty-six hours since Adam Fenix's weapon had been deployed, and Baird was already starting to feel paranoid. This must've been what it was like for the Gears who had fought in the Pendulum Wars; almost eighty years of war, and suddenly it was all over. But then six weeks later all hell broke loose again. So Baird figured it was understandable to be a little uneasy.

He needed to do something, anything, to stop his mind from running. That had to be why so many Gears were rushing around doing stupid bullshit work that could wait for a few days. No one wanted to think, because What To Do Next was so frigging overwhelming. _Rebuild_. The entire human population. Infrastructure. Commerce. Government. Shit, no pressure or anything. Some poor asshole had even cleared out the mutilated scientists so the hotel actually looked liveable. And it was fucking creepy. Baird couldn't remember the last time he'd seen such a fancy building intact.

Still, he'd managed to snag one of the nicer rooms before people started calling dibs. If anyone deserved the penthouse suite, it was Delta. They had saved the frigging world, after all.

There would probably be work for him down at the beach; the Gorasni reinforcements had taken a bit of a pounding thanks to the Siege Beasts. And he hadn't had the chance to see Yanik yet. The asshole hadn't even had the decency to stop by when he and Cole were explaining shit to Trescu. Some crap about having to steer a ship. Still, Yanik would probably want to know all the "Cogs" he liked weren't dead. Mathieson, Bernie the dog-lady, his _duchashka_—

Shit.

Lately, thoughts of Sam Byrne were followed by an acrid sense of _something_ in his chest and a mental rebuff, usually along the lines of _Why __the __hell __did __I __have __to __say __that?_ It was a stupid, hackneyed thing to say; something you said when you were pretty frigging sure you were going to die and didn't want to go with any regrets. Only there was one problem—they'd saved the fucking world. And now he had to deal with this shit.

_Why the hell did I have to say that._

Baird rubbed a hand over his face. Like it or not, this wasn't going to just go away. He'd opened his big stupid mouth and that always came with consequences. Normally he was only denied another well-deserved promotion, but this time … he had no frigging clue.

But apparently he was about to find out.

A familiar figure appeared at the entrance to the hotel lobby. Sam, a duffle bag slung over her shoulder, not wearing any armour. Not that _that_ was entirely surprising; after sixteen years of running around in heavy Gear tackle, most people were taking advantage of wearing t-shirts and jeans without having to worry about getting their asses shot off. She spotted him through the mess of civvies and Gears, and waved. He half-heatedly returned the gesture as she started towards him.

_Fuck._

So this was happening. He put on his best acerbic expression and smirked as she closed the gap between them. Goddamn, why did he feel like a twelve-year-old girl? It wasn't like he'd never experienced this before. School had been a cakewalk. He was smart and rich; girls used whatever excuse they could to get his clothes off. But this was different. This was _Sam._ That shouldn't have made a difference for him, but somehow it did.

She was smiling. That was never a good sign with her. He had the urge to cross his legs and protect his cash and prizes.

"Looking for something to do?" she asked.

He couldn't help it. His mind immediately went there, and she must have seen it in his face. Instead of punching him in the balls, she just rolled her eyes and continued. "My bike's engine is buggered. Some tosser didn't strap it down properly for transport and it got caught between a Packhorse and a wall."

Mechanics. This he could do. "Ah, what the hell. I'll cancel my dinner reservations."

"Thanks, Baird. I appreciate it."

Now that was unexpected. He raised an eyebrow, but Sam was already walking away. Baird caught up to her and fell into a walking pace by her side, probably trying too hard to make it look casual. And of course they happened to walk past Cole, helping to move some crates. He gave Baird a massive grin and a thumbs up. Fantastic. Cole was never going to drop this.

Sam's rat-bike was out in a field behind the hotel, along with all the other vehicles. There was no method to the organization of vehicles, and Baird couldn't help but cringe. If Royston Sharle could see this now, he would probably have a heart attack. The man was a stickler for orderliness.

"Here."

Sam gestured to her bike, beside a 'Dill that had seen better days. Apparently this was the section of the field where vehicles came to die. Sam's bike wasn't looking so hot. As Baird got closer, he could see a massive dent running along the side fairing and clutch cover. It probably wasn't the engine, then. Finding spare parts would be interesting.

He squatted next to the bike, acutely aware of Sam scrutinizing his every move. If he so much as scratched the paint she'd probably go for his jugular. He jumped as Sam tossed the kit bag to the ground beside him. The bag was already unzipped, and he could see tools inside—_his_ tools.

"What the …" Baird reached for a screwdriver. "How did you—?"

"Ah, if I told you, I'd have to kill you. And then who would fix my bike?"

"So … Cole."

The slight twitch of her lips told him all he needed to know. Next time he ran into Cole, he'd punch him in the back of the head. Sometimes Cole was even worse than Bernie. And thank God _Mataki_ wasn't around to see this. Baird returned his attention to the bike. He unscrewed the clutch cover, and then gently pried it open. His brow furrowed as he inspected the inside. This was going to be fun.

"Well?" Sam asked, leaning over him. Her leg brushed against his side.

Baird cleared his throat, ignoring the sudden pounding in his ears. "The friction plate's cracked, so you can't change gears. I'm gonna have to take the clutch apart, and we're gonna have to track down a new plate."

Sam pressed her lips together. "Fantastic. Where the hell do we get one? All the COG bikes are still back at Anvil Gate."

"Don't have a cow." Baird didn't look up as he began to carefully remove the clutch, spring by spring. "I can do anything, remember? Look around: it's a spare part haven. A Packhorse's clutch should be similar enough that I can make something work."

Sam didn't look convinced. "Even if I believed you could do that, won't Sharle shoot you if he finds you scavenging for parts again without clearing it with him first?"

Baird bristled at her scepticism. "First, it's not scavenging, it's _liberating_. Second, that assumes Sharle's going to catch me. You come and stand watch. If he shows up, I don't know, distract him with your breasts or something."

She shot him a frosty, indignant look that he'd seen many times. Why was he so damn good at antagonizing her? Why did he _care_? He'd known her for over a year and never given a shit about her feelings. He rolled his eyes at his own stupidity, and finished taking apart the clutch. Yep, there it was—a big frigging crack right down the middle of the plate. Now to find a replacement.

Baird stood up and surveyed the surrounding vehicles. A Packhorse would be the safest bet, but the only one he could see at the moment looked like a Brumak had stepped on the front end. He wandered away from the bike, looking for a more promising candidate, and was mildly surprised when Sam followed. Well … he didn't have to be an antisocial asshole _all_ the time.

"Remind me again why I'm fixing your bike?" he asked, keeping his eyes straight ahead. "I've seen you work on it plenty of times."

Sam didn't answer right away. She was probably trying to decide whether or not to verbally castrate him for the breasts comment, or to run with his change of mood. Finally, she replied in a slightly strained voice, "It's like they say: if you want something done right, bribe an expert to do it."

"Hold up. What exactly am I being bribed with?"

"I'll owe you one."

Baird raised his eyebrows, but didn't have time to think of a witty, charming, slightly cynical comeback. He spotted a decently intact Packhorse, wedged in-between two destroyed Centaurs. The Packhorse looked like it had run over a Ticker, but the engine didn't appear to be too damaged. He walked over to it and propped open the hood. The clutch was tucked away behind the engine, which seemed functional enough.

"Gimme a second," he mumbled, stretching over the engine. His hands fumbled around for a while before he found the clutch. Time to get to work. "Hand me that screwdriver."

Sam complied, and then leaned against the Packhorse. "What do you think you'll do now that the grubs are gone?"

He snorted derisively. "Getting worried you're out of work? It's not like it's going to be all peace on Sera, starting now. Somehow I can't see the Stranded welcoming us with open arms, even though we did just save their ungrateful asses—again." One screw popped out, falling into the bowels of the engine. "Like that Griffin guy. He sounds like a real piece of work. I don't think that he'll just …"

He trailed off as he noticed the change in Sam's demeanour. She'd gone all rigid, staring blankly ahead. His mind made the connection too late. Griffin. Char. Mercy. _Dom._ "Ah, shit. Sorry, Sam. I know how …" _I __know __how __you __felt __about __him._

"It's fine," she said quietly. "He's with Maria now. That's what he always wanted."

Baird still couldn't believe it. Anya had sat him and Cole down the previous day, and explained how it had happened. And wasn't it just like Dom to sacrifice himself, go out as a martyr and a hero. But that didn't make it any easier to swallow. It didn't feel like Dom was really gone; it still felt like a dream, and that he'd run in to Dom eventually. Baird had been hanging out with optimists for too long. He'd been lulled into a false sense of security, believed that Delta was invincible. The squad wasn't—Clayton Carmine knew that better than anyone. Minh, Tai, and Anthony and Benjamin Carmine. But the core of Delta had felt unshakeable. Not that feelings mattered at all.

He was fiddling absentmindedly with the machinery, and his hand slipped. Something sliced into his palm and he withdrew his hand quickly, sucking his breath in.

"_Fuck_."

There was a sizeable gash across his palm. Great. He'd probably need to go see Doc Hayman for a tetanus shot, and oh _that_ would be fun. He quickly found a cleanish rag in the duffle bag and wrapped it around his hand. As he made to go back to the engine, Sam snatched the screwdriver away.

"Hey!" he protested, reaching for the tool on instinct. People didn't just _take_ his things.

"I don't want your blood all over my new plate," she snapped, moving into his personal space.

"Yeah, sure, just shove yourself in there, why don't you?" he grumbled, making a pointed effort to ignore the way his stomach lurched.

"Don't piss off, I can't exactly see what I'm doing."

Baird rolled his eyes, but leaned over the engine, attempting to give her directions. "A little lower. Yeah—no, too far. Back up. _Up_. Almost—no. Oh, for the love of—you're hopeless." With his uninjured hand, he grabbed her wrist and moved her into the right position. "There. You're welcome."

Sam stared at him, like she was trying to say something, but decided against it. Instead, she settled for her previous question. "So … what will you do now? Will you go home?"

"Considering Jacinto is now the world's biggest aquarium decoration, I don't think I'll be going back." Besides, he didn't exactly get teary-eyed thinking about Jacinto. Sure, he'd grown up there, and it felt weird to watch the only place he'd ever lived sinking into the ocean, but it wasn't exactly his One True Home. Vectes had been nice enough, but he didn't exactly fantasize about going back to the island either. As absolutely lame as it sounded, _home_ seemed to be wherever Delta was. How pathetic was _that_? He really was going soft. Cole would be thrilled.

"I might try to get stationed at Anvil Gate. It's been a while since I've been home."

Somehow, Baird got the idea that Sam wasn't just making idle conversation. She was fishing for something, and he had a suspicion as to what it might be. But he wasn't a heart-to-heart guy—he wasn't just going to come out and say it.

"Anvegad, huh?" He made sure to keep his tone noncommittal. "I'm sure they could use a good mechanic there. And I haven't tormented Mataki in a while."

Sam stopped working on the clutch, and turned to look at him. The expression on her face was one he'd never seen before. Not frustrated, offended or hurt—those, he was used to. This expression was frigging weird, a mix of surprise and poorly concealed relief.

Baird gave her a smirk, and went back to guiding her hand.

Anvegad … yeah. He could do that.


End file.
